“I happen to find her raiment most… presentable,” Alex murmured. His eyes were fixed upon his plate as the servants ladled the food onto it—a hearty stew of some sort, with beef and vegetables.
His comment lightened Isla’s spirits somewhat. “That’s kind of you tae say, Laird Alex.”
“He may call himself ‘Laird Alex’ when I’m moldering in my bed,” Douglas snarled, “but when I manage tae find strength enough tae leave it, he’ll be only ‘Alex’ and be glad of it!”
“My apologies again, Laird Douglas,” Isla said meekly. “Naturally, the title is rightfully yours.”
“I dinnae need your approval on the subject, lass!” the old man croaked. “If anything, you should be seeking mine, as the man whose clan you’re going to join!”
“As you’ve said, father,” Alex pointed out, “we need this union as well. If you intend tae be over-critical of her, or speak poorly to her face, you may jeopardize it grievously.”
Douglas waved him off dismissively and began to eat. His table manners were appalling, and it seemed that more of the stew made its way onto his tunic and lap than it did into his mouth.
Isla glanced over at Alex. His eyes were still downcast, but he looked utterly humiliated.
“Now then,” Douglas went on, speaking with his mouth full, “the wedding will, naturally, occur here at Castle Oliphant.”
“No doubt Lady Isla will want tae have a say in that,” Alex spoke up, “tae say nothing of her family…”
Douglas smacked his wilted fist against the table. It looked like a pale and withered apple. “Ours is the larger and more powerful clan, lad, and I remain its leader! Therefore, I shall say where the ceremony will be! Is that understood?” He shookhis head angrily, not bothering to wait for an answer. “Is this how you intend tae rule over this marriage and this clan, fool? Looking to her approval in every decision?”
“Nay, father,” Alex grunted.
The old man returned to his meal, his lips twisted smugly. “Good.”
The meal continued in this fashion over the course of an hour, with Douglas belittling Alex and Alex silently tolerating it. Douglas was not nearly as free with his temper with Isla, though. He seemed aware of where the line was, and reluctant to cross it for fear that she might rethink the marriage and run off. He questioned her closely about the MacDonells: the size of their lands, the description of the manor she’d been raised in, the number and nature of their farms, and how many able-bodied men were loyal to their banner. If the inquisitor or the context had been any different, she might have suspected that he was seeking out points of weakness with the intention of exploiting them.
Instead, though, she knew he was simply eager to learn how this union might benefit his own clan and people, and so she gave her answers freely.
Eventually, his coughing became severe enough to make him discontinue his questioning, and a pair of servants helped him rise from his chair so he could go up to his room again. He barely had breath enough to bid Isla goodnight, and he made no attempt to say anything to Alex on the way out.
Once he had departed, Isla did not know what to say to Alex. His eyes kept flicking over to the doorway nervously, as though some part of him expected the old man to return at any moment. He appeared pale and drawn, as though his father’s string of invective had shaken him.
Isla wished there were some way she might comfort him, but she could think of nothing appropriate.
As she tried to come up with something, however, one of the servants stumbled and dropped a pitcher of wine he’d been bringing to the table. The servant recovered, but the pitcher shattered against the stone floor, sending the wine splashing in every direction. Some of it speckled Alex’s boots.
Isla braced herself, for she was certain he was about to lose his temper with the poor servant due to his constant demands for perfection from all those around him.
And for a moment, it seemed he might. His face twitched with anger at the disruptive noise, and the mess the poor soul had made…
…but then he calmed himself almost immediately. “Are you hurt?” he asked.
The servant looked even more surprised by this reaction than Isla was. He shook his head. “No, Laird Alex. I am dreadfully sorry… I… I’ll fetch more wine at once, I’ll clean this up, I’ll…”
“No need,” Alex told him. He sounded weary. “Not unless Lady Isla requests more, at any rate. For myself, I am going tae retire for the night.” He managed a tired smile for Isla. “Until tomorrow, my lady.”
“Until then, Laird Alex,” she answered breathlessly.
He withdrew, leaving her to consider the events of the evening before her own decision to go up to bed.
What was she to make of his behavior?
His father still had the power to frighten and upset Alex despite his frail condition, that much was obvious. She would have thought that alone would be enough to put Alex in a foul mood, enough to lash out at the servant over the spilled wine.
Could it be that Alex recognized his own bad behavior? That he might even be determined to try to change it?
And if so, might her presence beencouragingsuch a change?
